


Iron

by Clarisse (transnymphtaire)



Series: Advent Calendar 2016 [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, No Dialogue, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transnymphtaire/pseuds/Clarisse
Summary: Only soulmates experience scents, triggered at first touch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmate AU from The Fragrance of a Moon Orchid by TheGreenQueene
> 
> Unbetaed.

It’s almost as if he’s having an out-of-body experience.

Only a moment ago, Cedric was alive and they were winning the Triwizard Tournament together. Now? Now Cedric was dead, and Wormtail - the man who betrayed his parents, the man who framed Sirius, the man who pretended to be his best friend’s pet for _years_ \- is using a knife to cut his arm. Harry flinches as his arm starts burning in pain, but he keeps quiet. He’s not going to show any weakness in front of this man - in front of this _rat_.

The rest happen quickly after that. Wormtail collects his blood to add it into the cauldron, which looks out of place in the overgrown graveyard. Next, the rat-man use the same knife that he used to steal Harry’s blood to cut off his own hand. Harry looks away in disgust. He can hear the flesh sizzling after the appendage lands in the cauldron. He doesn’t look back until the sizzling dies out in favor of bubbling. The cauldron melt away as he watches, and he belatedly realise that he no longer can see the bundle that was Voldemort.

Smoke is overflowing from the cauldron, and a pale body rise up from the molten remains. Harry can’t help but be thankful for the smoke as it cloaks the pale body - he has no desire to get more intimate with Voldemort than he already is. Yet he can’t look away. His eyes linger on Voldemort’s feet - the white appendages stand out against the dark before they disappear underneath a black cloak. It’s first then that he turns his glance up again, green meeting red.

Had the scythe of the death angel statue that he was pressed up against not held him firmly in place, Harry would have been running by now. As it is, he has no means of escape. He can only watch as Voldemort practically glides over the ground, not stopping until they’re close enough to touch.

For a brief moment, their eyes meet and Harry wonders if there’s anything left of Tom Riddle in Voldemort’s red glance. Then the moment is over as Voldemort lifts an arm, black fabric slowly revealing white skin thanks to the pull of gravity. Harry’s breath is stuck in his throat as he watch Voldemort’s hand wearily. The pale hand move into a claw-like fist, with the pointer finger sticking out and painfully slowly being lowered towards his forehand.

Voldemort touch his scar at last, and Harry’s world explode in pain as his nerves are put on fire. His mouth and nostrils fill with iron. The scent of blood is overwhelming when he has never felt it before, and it adds a layer of iron to his already iron-covered tongue. If he didn’t know better, he would think that his mouth was blood-filled.

Harry spits at Voldemort’s feet. There’s no blood, but the taste still linger. Some of the iron have given place for death, and for dirt.

The look on Voldemort’s face is the look of someone who didn’t know that something were missing. Harry hope that Voldemort is overwhelmed by iron and death, that he will succumb to the new sense and be incapable of fight long enough for Harry to escape. His hopes barely flare to life before they’re crushed as Voldemort’s thin lips break out into a smile and spidery fingers are dragged through his hair in a false act of affection.

His blood rushes through his veins, stealing away his sense of hearing with the strong beating of his heart, the quick pace of his pulse. Harry’s eyes flickers. His mouth is filled with iron, blocking out the oxygen from his lungs. If not for the scythe holding him upwards, he would have fallen into Voldemort’s embrace as he loses consciousness.

A strong sense of _safe_ , _wrong_ , _danger_ , _safe_ is the last thing to wash over him as the scythe is moved by magic and a pair of thin arms come up to stop his fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I just couldn't write more. I want to continue this someday though, it's a promising idea.
> 
> Question: Should I end the calendar the 24th or 25th? When do you guys celebrate Christmas?  
> I'm Swedish, so I celebrate the 24th, hence I'm asking.


End file.
